


Different Shade Of Red

by Unread



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Hospital, Injured Ian, M/M, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unread/pseuds/Unread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bar fight doesn't end well for any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this directly after season 4. It's all AU after that, guys. 
> 
> ALSO I’M PRETENDING FIONA DIDN’T GO ON A BENDER AND GO TO JAIL. OR AT LEAST HASN’T DONE SO YET. OK? OK.
> 
> (Title from [this Austin Lucas song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3czZ0Qf17Q/))

Mickey’s not scared anymore. For the first time in his life, he’s not scared of his dad. Kinda ironic, seeing as though right now they’re beating the shit out of each other, but who the fuck cares. Mostly he’s just fucking angry. Angry that Ian’s face is bleeding, angry that he let his father have so much power over him for so many years. There’s some satisfaction and relief in there too, because he doesn’t have to hide anymore. Ian’s his now, in the eyes of everyone.

Except then, in the middle of Kev’s bar in front of a crowd of people and a priest, his dad smirks at Mickey, pulls out a gun, and shoots Ian in the chest.

Mickey’s not close enough to stop it, having been thrown into a table. All he can do is watch as Ian stumbles back a step, looks down at his own chest, and then crumples to the floor like his strings have been cut.

Mickey’s limbs don’t seem to be working properly. The fight and fire pounding through his veins seconds before are gone, leaving him colder than he’s ever been in his life. Somehow he makes it to Ian’s side. He doesn’t know what’s happening around him, he no longer cares. All he can see is Ian’s bloodied face and his wide, shocked eyes staring back at him. Ian’s still breathing, thank fuck still breathing, but his normally pale skin is now sickly white.

“Fuck, Ian, Ian. Someone call a fucking ambulance!” Mickey hears his own voice, but it’s like he’s under water. Everything’s distorted and unfocused and slow-moving, except for the boy laying in front of him. Mickey’s clumsy hands push open Ian’s jacket. Mickey’s seen a lot of blood in his life, never made him even slightly queasy before, but right now he wants to throw up. Ian’s shirt is soaked, dark and sticky. Mickey can’t even tell where the fucking bullet went, all he can do is grope ineffectually.

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice is a whisper, and it makes Mickey’s insides wither up and die to hear him sound so faint and weak. Bright, vibrant Ian, reduced to this. And it’s all Mickey’s fucking fault.

“You...you’re gonna be fine,” Mickey croaks, because right now the alternative is unthinkable. Literally -- his brain just shies away from any other outcome. Ian needs to know this, so he can survive. Mickey leans over and kisses him, tries not to think about how cold Ian’s lips are. “You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine.” He thinks he says it too many times, but he can’t really be sure.

Someone touches Mickey’s shoulder, and he shakes them off. Until he sees paramedics muscle in, and then he scoots away, watches them blankly as they assess the wound and manhandle Ian onto a stretcher. Then he’s up and following, like he’s in a tunnel and they’re the light at the end.

“He’s my fucking boyfriend,” he says to them when they try to stop him getting into the ambulance. There’s multiple sirens all around them, lights flashing. They let him scramble up, legs rubbery.

He hears a voice shout through the closing ambulance doors, “I’ll call Fiona!” Kev’s standing in the snow, watching them pull away from the bar. Mickey stares after him blankly for a moment, and then lets his eyes fall back on Ian.


	2. Chapter 2

They shoo him away when they get to the emergency room. All he can do is watch as they wheel Ian into the white depths of the hospital and disappear down a corridor. Mickey’s never felt so empty in his life as when he loses sight of him.

A nurse comes up to him, asks him questions. He ignores her. His hands are shaking, or maybe his whole body. He sits, only because if he doesn’t, he’ll fall on the fucking floor. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually a Gallagher comes rushing up to him. Followed by a whole bunch of Gallaghers, maybe all of them.

“Mickey? Where is he?” Fiona’s eyes are huge and tear-filled. Kev and his missus are in the crowd too, and Mickey figures he told them what went down. Mickey just points towards the ER. His hands are still shaking, apparently. They’re covered in Ian’s blood. He sits on them.

“Your dad’s been arrested,” Kev says. Mickey just shrugs in response. He doesn’t trust his voice just yet. And he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t have it in him to care about anything except Ian right now.

Vee is suddenly in his face, sitting beside him and peering at him. “Mickey, that looks pretty bad, you should get treated.” Her voice sounds concerned.

His face feels stiff with dried blood, but he can’t really feel any pain. Or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to feel it. He shrugs again.

Someone’s crying. He thinks it’s the girl, Debbie. The one with red hair, like Ian. And fuck no, now all he can think about is Ian’s hair, and with that comes Ian’s smile and Ian’s freckles, and how he’s lying on a table right now bleeding somewhere and it’s Mickey’s fault, because he remembers his dad’s smirk and Mickey should have _known_ , he should have fucking known.

He tries to tell them he’s sorry, but can’t form the words.

***

Vee cleans him up, because this waiting room has seen worse than him before and not been bothered. He just sits there and lets her, and it’s like his body’s in stasis, waiting. The Gallaghers sit around nearby, some of them crying, some filling out paperwork, some of them punching walls. Mickey’s kind of surprised they aren’t punching him.

Once again time passes without him being properly aware of it. A nurse or doctor or some hospital person comes out, says “Gallagher? Ian?” and just like that, Mickey’s body starts working again in a painful jolt of fear. Fiona and Lip rush at the woman in sync. She doesn’t seemed fazed. Mickey sits there on high alert, gripping the plastic seat beneath him with both hands.

She rattles off a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo, and he flinches at words like ‘trauma’ and ‘blood loss’. Finally she gets to the point, and says, “Your brother’s in ICU. He’ll be there for a day or two, then he’ll be moved into a recovery ward. He’s got a lot of healing to do.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Fiona says, clearly wanting reassurance. Mickey can’t blame her.

“He’s out of danger. The bullet was small caliber and didn’t penetrate any organs. He’s very, very lucky.”

Lucky Terry was drunk outta his fucking skull and couldn’t aim, Mickey thinks. Not lucky in any other way though. Mickey’s now convinced that the day they hooked up was the unluckiest fucking day of Ian’s life. He tries to ignore the pounding of his heart when he hears Ian’s going to live, because Mickey doesn’t deserve anything close to fucking relief right now.

Fiona’s giving loud sobs, and all of the Gallaghers have formed some kind of giant group hug.

“Can we see him?” pipes up Debbie, and the woman nods and says, “Just one today.”

Mickey catches Lip giving him a look, as if Lip’s expecting Mickey to demand visitation or some shit. He doesn’t. He’s not family.

Fiona wipes her face and puts an arm around Debbie. “I should go this time, Debs. You can see him tomorrow.”

Fiona leaves with the woman and the remaining Gallaghers sag back into their seats, their mood altered from worry to giddy relief. Mickey stands. He feels like an old man, like he joints don’t work properly. He ignores the collective looks he gets as he passes them, and somehow shuffles his way into a restroom.

He makes it to a stall just in time, vomits all of his insides into the bowl. He stays there for a while, gasping, and then wipes his mouth, flushes, and unlocks the door. Lip is leaning against the row of sinks, watching as he emerges.

Mickey ignores him and washes his hands. He goes back for more liquid soap twice, scrubs until his hands don’t have Ian all over them. He rinses his mouth and spits, splashes some water on his face. None of it makes him feel better.

“Kev said the whole bar pulled guns on Terry,” Lip says eventually. His blue eyes are fixedly intense, emphasized by dark circles and red rims. “I guess even drunken lowlifes don’t like seeing seventeen year olds get shot by homophobic assholes.”

Mickey doesn’t want to hear any of this. He wants Lip to fuck off, he wants to _tell_ Lip to fuck off, but it’s like something inside him -- his will to fight, maybe -- has just been switched off, and he can’t quite manage it. Normally he expresses his emotions by swearing, yelling, punching, or a combination thereof, but this isn’t normal. He feels like there’s a heavy weight blanketing his feelings, keeping them from surfacing. No, it’s definitely not normal. But then when the fuck have his emotions concerning Ian Gallagher ever been normal, anyway?

“He’ll be in jail a long time for this,” Lip continues on, like he doesn’t know or care that _Mickey_ doesn’t care. “Might even get life.”

Mickey walks away without responding, leaves the restroom. He finds a seat in the waiting room, a different one, further away from the Gallaghers. They’re all looking at him again.

Lip plunks down next to him, clearly unfazed by Mickey’s unresponsiveness. “I know what it’s like to feel responsible for something my dad did. It’s not your fault, Mickey.”

Finally, Mickey finds some words. They come out a bit raspy. “He shouldn’t have been there.” No, that was wrong, he sounds like he blaming Ian. He tries again. “I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should have know Terry’d…” The words dry up again. He can’t think properly.

“You know Ian’s in love with you, right?” Lip’s eyebrow is raised in question, but there’s no other judgment there. Not that he gives a fuck about that anymore. He almost laughs -- he finally, genuinely doesn’t care what people think about his sexuality -- but at such a fucking price. Lip keeps going: “And I’m fairly certain you love him. Ian’s not one to live a lie, as you’ve probably discovered.”

“What’s your fucking point?” Mickey’s proud of that response -- he sounded like his old self, even if he didn’t feel it.

“My point is that no one can control what their shithead fathers do. You and me combined could write a fucking encyclopedia on daddy issues. Don’t get me wrong, I think you and Ian are both total idiots, but standing up to your dad isn’t the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. If it’d ended in you just beating the shit out of each other, everyone would’ve gone home happy, right? Terry was just more psycho than he gets credit for.”

Mickey remembers being forced to fuck a prostitute at gunpoint in front of Ian, and feels a hysterical urge to laugh. He swallows it back down. “I knew he wanted to kill me. And Ian. I...I knew. I just didn’t think...” Tonight Terry hadn’t wanted _Mickey_ dead. That was way too easy. He’d wanted Mickey to watch Ian die. _That_ was unexpected -- Mickey had always assumed he’d get the brunt of whatever his dad threw at them, not Ian. Not Ian. He been so fucking wrong about that. His voice sounds small when he says, “I thought he’d just go for me.”

“So you were trying to protect Ian by keeping it on the down low?” Lip says, proving that he was, in fact, a smart fucker.

Mickey shrugs. “Unsuccessfully.”

Lip responds with a shrug of his own. “Ian is a stubborn bastard. Good at wearing people’s intentions down.”

For some reason Mickey feels riled by this, even though it’s completely true. But he just says “You got any smokes?” more because he wants to end this conversation than any real desire for nicotine.


	3. Chapter 3

He was wrong about the nicotine. He stands in the frigid air, right in front of a no smoking sign, and sucks down one of Lip’s cigarettes like it’s a fucking power source.

It’s freezing, but he doesn’t want to go back inside. He works his way through Lip’s pack of smokes, ignores the frowns of occasional passers-by. 

His fingers are numb and he can’t feel the tip of his nose when Lip and Fiona join him. He hands over the now nearly-empty pack, ignores Lip’s dirty look. They light up, blowing out great clouds of smoke and shivering their asses off. 

Mickey looks at Fiona’s pale, tear-tracked face, and feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. He doesn’t think it’s because he just smoked half a pack, either.

She catches him staring. “He’s unconscious. He…” Her voice falters, cracks, even though she’s probably just told all the kids inside how Ian was already. Maybe she gave them an edited version. Mickey thinks he’d like one, too, but Fiona’s clearly not going to go that easy on him. “He looked pretty bad. His whole upper body is just one giant bandage. They said...they said half an inch lower and he probably wouldn’t have made it. As it is, there’ll probably be nerve damage in his shoulder, and his movement might be limited. He has bruised ribs, too. And his face is all busted up. Like yours.”

There wasn’t really any accusation in her tone. More questioning. Mickey guessed he owed them his account of what happen instead of whatever the fuck Kev told them -- and hell, probably the cops were looking to question him as well, come to think of it, but he couldn’t be fucked to care about that right now. 

_Half an inch lower._

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you get into a bar fight,” Mickey manages to say, but his voice is shakey. He wishes that that would be enough to satisfy her, but know it’s not. “Look, I thought Terry’d go after me, not Ian. He went fucking insane.”

“Because you told him you’re gay.” Lip’s eyebrow is raised, and Mickey kind of wants to punch him. “That’s like waving red at a bull, Mickey.”

“Fuck you. I get it, okay? I should be the one in a fucking hospital bed. Ian…” And right there, his voice breaks. He turns his back on them, wipes furiously at his face. “I thought he go for me, not Ian.” He’s clinging to that, as if it somehow 

“We know what it’s like to have a shitty father, Mickey,” Fiona says gently. “Yours is even worse than ours, by the way.”

“Yeah, Lip gave me the fucking speech already.” 

“So you get that it’s not your fault, then.”

Mickey swivels back to stare at them like they’ve lost their minds. He laughs, and it sounds crazy. “Everything about this is my fucking fault. I should have known better.”

Fiona sighs and shares a look with Lip. It kind of feels like they’re talking about him behind his back, and pisses Mickey off. He yanks the cigarette packet away from Lip and lights another smoke.

“I’ve gotta take the kids home,” Fiona says through chattering teeth, clearly giving up on Mickey, thank fuck. “If I’m lucky, I’ll make it home in time to greet my probation officer wondering where the hell I am.”

“Well it’s not like you went on a bender. Another one, I mean.” Fiona gives him a dirty look, and he smirks at her before saying, “Maybe you’ll get a pass for family emergency,” Lip says. “I’ll stay here. Debs and Carl probably won’t want to leave, you know. It’s not like they’ll sleep tonight anyway.”

Fiona sighs again. “Yeah I know. They can stay if they want. I’ll take Liam home. We’ll have to call in a sick day for school tomorrow. Can you manage a day off too?”

“Yeah, I’ve got all my shit with me, just need to churn out a couple essays. Um, here’s a shitty thought -- how the fuck are we gonna pay the hospital bills?”

Fiona stares at her brother, and doesn’t answer. Mickey does it for her. “That old rich fuck, the doctor. The one Ian…” he trails off, take another long drag of his smoke instead.

“Oh shit, Jimmy’s dad. Yeah maybe. I’ll talk to him.” Fiona sends a long look Mickey’s way, but he just stares back down at the snow-covered walk. “I’m going back in. You coming, Mickey?”

Mickey shrugs and grinds his cigarette butt into the snow with his boot . He feels vaguely relieved at her including him, but it also makes him uncomfortable. If he’d expected anything in this particular situation -- not that he’d ever truly believed it’d get this bad, and wasn’t that his punishment for being the slightest fucking bit optimistic? -- he’d have thought the Gallaghers would at best turn their backs on him, and at worst, bury his mangled corpse in their backyard and piss on his grave every morning for getting their little brother shot.

Turns out he’s wrong about that, but he can’t figure out why.

***

They don’t ask him if he’s staying, they just take it as a given. Keeping vigil overnight is completely pointless, Mickey’s aware of this, but going home is unthinkable. And what even is home right now, anyway? His home is Ian. The moment he thinks this, his heart drops into his shoes and he has to escape to the restroom again. He’s disgusted with himself, almost having a panic attack just at the thought of how much Ian means to him, at what he almost fucking _lost_ , but manages to refrain from punching the mirror. When he finally gets his shit together enough to leave the bathroom, Kev and Vee have left with Fiona and Liam. 

Mickey finds it hard to sit still, now, and paces instead. He drinks disgusting coffee from the vending machine and doesn’t bother trying to stay away from the Gallaghers anymore. He’ll take anything that distracts him from the images that keep replaying in his head: the noise of a gunshot and Ian’s shocked face. How warm Ian’s blood felt on Mickey’s hands. Terry’s smirk. His brain keeps throwing these at him at random times, and they make it difficult to breathe.

He listens to Debbie and Carl argue. He watches Lip a couple seats down from him, books spread over his lap, writing furiously. They seem familiar with hospital waiting rooms, and keeping themselves occupied -- he assumes because of the recent scare with Liam, and several other times in the past with Frank and Monica. Mickey is not used to it. He was raised in the belief that hospital’s where you go to die, and everything else can be cured with duct tape and booze. It’s not like they ever had the money for it, anyway, and when it came to the Milkoviches, hospital visits usually lead to police questioning.

He tears his empty coffee cup into bits. Somehow, hours pass. The kids doze pretzeled up in the waiting room chairs, and Mickey’s ass falls asleep. He wishes the rest of him would too, but he’s had too much shitty coffee and his brain won’t shut off. 

Lip disappears for a while, and then returns with an armful of candy and chips and magazines. The kids rouse themselves enough to grab at the stash.

“I thought the hospital shops were all closed,” Debbie says, flicking through a Cosmopolitan.

“They are,” Lip says, and winks at her mysteriously.

MIckey eyes the pile of dubiously-acquired candy and grabs a Snickers bar. He doesn’t eat it, just taps it against his jittery leg. He notices Carl watching him. They’ve been wary of him most of the night, but he doesn’t think it’s out of fear, or hatred. The thought crosses his mind that they’re treating him carefully, like he might snap or have a breakdown at any moment. Well, he can’t blame them for that, especially because he still feels like he’s made out of fucking glass, like at any moment he’ll just topple over and shatter into pieces. 

“Why’d your dad do that anyway?” Carl says suddenly, out of nowhere. And then as if Mickey need further clarification as to what he was talking about, he continues, “Shoot Ian. Why would he do that just because he’s your boyfriend?”

Lip snorts. “Because some people are bigoted fuckwits with shit for brains, and Terry Milkovich is the human equivalent of a cesspool.”

“You should kill him,’ Carl continues, looking at Mickey with a disturbing glint in his eyes. “I’ll help.”

There’s a moment of silence from everyone -- even Debbie’s chip packet stops rustling. It’s not like it hasn’t crossed Mickey’s mind in the hours since what happened at the bar. It’s just that he doesn’t want to have to ever see his father again, to have to deal with him. He doesn’t so much want to kill Terry as just have him not exist. Mickey realises Carl is waiting for a response, so he says, “Yeah okay, tough guy, put your guns away. He’s been arrested, so the best we can do is hope he gets shivved in prison. ”

“That sucks. He should die.”

“No arguments here.” 

“I bet if Ian had died you’d try to kill him.” 

Mickey’s jittery leg goes still. The weird, hard-to-breathe feeling starts constricting his chest again. He tries to imagine what he’d do if the outcome had been different, if Ian had...it makes Mickey feel like he’s a step away from going insane.

“Oh my god, Carl, shut up!” Debbie looks upset. She gets up abruptly and moves from her seat next to Carl to one next to Lip. 

“What, geez, you’d want to kill him too.” Carl kicks at the row of seats petulantly. 

Debbie puts her head on Lip’s shoulder, clearly trying to pretend Carl isn’t there. “Is he really gonna be okay, Lip?”

“Yeah, Debs, you heard the doctor. He’ll be fine.” Lip glances over at Mickey, a strange sort of painful sympathy in his expression.

Mickey is still trying to swallow down the feeling of panic over something a stupid _kid_ said, he can’t deal with pity from fucking Lip Gallagher. He gets up and heads for the restroom again -- he’s not running away, he has to fucking piss, okay?

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me riding the trash waves on [tumblr](http://lookslikeaquentinblakedrawing.tumblr.com/).


End file.
